We were introduced by a colleague of mine, a former student of his. It was one of those introductions that you think, “how in the world did we not know each other before?”

He has four kids, we have five. His wife has started a new project, so has mine. We share big, dreamy, ambitious ideas. We live four or five minutes apart. Our lunch could have gone another hour or two easily.

He said one thing in particular that hasn’t escaped my mind. It has gripped me actually.

“Man, I’m playing with house money. What do I have to be afraid of? What do I have to fear?”

House money. In cards, people say this when they’ve won. Maybe not a ton but enough to not be worried about losing.

He got up and walked out of a hospital where he should have been pronounced dead. What could he possibly be scared of now? Beyond the gift of life he was given, he was given the gift of perspective. His beliefs and values giving him the ability to use this new chance for the benefit of others.

Again, it’s not my story, it’s his. And as dramatic and captivating as his is, all of us have the same story actually.

The circumstances vary widely of course, but we’re all playing with house money.

What would look different if we realized this? What would we start doing if we believed this? What would we stop doing?

Surely something right? Surely lots of things.

It may feel like the deck is completely stacked against you. Or that time is running out. Or that the chips are so far down there’s no chance.

We’ve all been there before, we’ll likely all be there again. Life certainly isn’t all roses. But what if we gave into this guy’s belief that we’re playing with house money? That we have nothing to fear?

Life likely hasn’t given you the exact cards you would have chosen, but if you’re reading this, you’re still in the game.

I have somewhat of a man-crush on a guy I’ll likely never meet. It started about two years ago when I stumbled upon one of his books.

When someone asks me who my favorite writer is, I typically say “James Altucher.” He and I would disagree about some fundamental things in our lives, but I love the way he writes.

He’s honest, raw, extremely candid. And he’s been wildly successful because of it.

Further, he’s a tremendous interviewer. He runs a podcast and it’s fascinating to hear him get to deep, sometimes dark, places with his guests in a matter of a few minutes.

photo courtesy: unsplash.com

See, I’m crushing again. He’s great.

Last week, he had a guest on his show named Turney Duff. I’d never heard of him until that podcast.

Turney has an incredible story, you should listen to their interview here.

I was gripped by the things that Turney went through as he climbed to the top of Wall Street, made more money than most people could dream of, secured all the power he could want in New York City and threw himself in the gutter in the process.

Drugs, sex, cheating, lying, addiction.

He said something in that interview that has rattled around in my head for over a week now. In response to James asking him what the problem was that he was facing, Turney said:

“I had the disease of more.”

He went on to unpack how his chase for more damn near killed him. More fame, more money, more power, more sex, more highs.

More. More. More.

The reality is we’re all sick with this same disease. We may hide it better than he did when he was on his cocaine-induced, sleep-deprived benders, but we have the same disease.

If only I can get that promotion…

If only we can move to that neighborhood…

If only she would see what I do for this family…

If only he would look at me that way again…

If only I could call the shots…

Like Turney realized, it’s a deadly game. More won’t satisfy. In fact, most often, it further fuels and breeds an unhealthy addiction.

It’s like chasing a receipt that’s blowing away in the parking lot when it flies out of your shopping cart.

You sprint after it. The receipt stops. And the second you reach your foot out to stomp on it, it blows away.

The disease of more. The hope that fulfillment comes with that next thing, only to realize it’s further away yet again.

Here are four ways I’m working on my own disease of more:

Admit It – like most addictions, admitting you have a problem is the first big step. The danger is when we believe we’re immune.

Grow in Awareness – admitting the problem leads to a heightened sense of awareness when we start to stray, when we start to believe the lie that more “fill in the blank” will give us what we’re searching for. When we’re aware, it leads to the third point.

Ask for Help – most of us have people in our lives that are ready and willing to help fight this disease alongside us. But they can’t help if we don’t ask.

Arrange Priorities – Turney talked about the things that actually mean something now that his disease was brought to light – friendships, his relationship with his daughter, the career projects he’s working on, his care for doing the right things. Working through the disease sheds light on reclaiming meaning in the things that matter most to us.

More is certainly an alluring concept. We’re bombarded with the false promise that it will actually satisfy.

Our little man turned six today. I snuck out of the office for a bit to grab lunch with him. Nothing is as awkwardly awesome as having lunch with elementary kids.

we’ve entered the “wear shorts no matter how cold it is outside” phase

As soon as I sat down, one of the boys asked, “Hey Mr. Justin, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Silas?”

No buddy, never. Love the question though.

It got me thinking. Here’s this little six-year-old dude running around every day that has the unfortunate reality of looking like me.

He shares my middle name and my last name.

He’s mine.

And I’m his.

What a beautiful, terrifying reality. But as much as I’m trying to impart wisdom on him, I think I’m the one changing the most.

Our half-nerd, half-jock, all-awesome son has fundamentally altered who I am these last six years in these six ways:

I Come Alive When He’s Alive: before I had a son, I had these great visions of him being a premier athlete or world-class at something. Like that really matters. Really until about a year ago, he couldn’t have cared less about balls, bats and baskets. He loved worms, dirt and bugs. And I was totally fine with it. When he’s pumped about life, so am I.

He Reminds Me That Tenderness is Strength: there are plenty of tough-guy examples out there, but one thing our little dude has taught me is that tenderness is actually strength. And it doesn’t equate to being soft.

Choose Adventure: not a day goes by where he doesn’t want me to get swept up with him in some story. Save the queen, fight the bad guy, overcome the world. Somewhere along the way, adults quit believing in the improbable and settled for the ordinary. He’s teaching me to fight that.

Being Tough is Necessary: I’m for sure a softie when it comes to parenting, but having him has made me realize that tough love is a beautiful form of parenting at times. Not that I haven’t given the girls tough love, but for some reason, he’s a bit easier to be hard on when he needs to be corrected.

Protect the Woman: with an incredibly strong wife and four independent, strong daughters, I’ll be the first in line saying they don’t need a man to watch out for them. But the other day, a boy Silas’ age was playing a bit too rough with his younger sister. Silas looked at the boy and said, “Do NOT be aggressive with my sister.” Perhaps because we’ve been on him since day one about looking out for the women in his life.

Love is Often the Answer: This kid runs hard, has a nonstop motor and is always on the go. But when he hits the wall and shuts it down each night, he might be the softest kid we have. He loves huge hugs and cuddling on the couch. He’s reminding us that love is often the best answer.

A few weeks ago, he kept saying to us, “well I’m technically six now.” We’d reply and say, “actually bro, you’re technically five for a few more weeks.”

We’re fairly certain he was confusing technically with almost. He carried on with this until today.

Well buddy, you’re technically six now. Six of the best years of my life.

I’ve written a lot on my Facebook page the last month. Another blogger has done challenges for new writers encouraging them to write 500 words a day for a month. They don’t have anyone edit them or even post them publicly, he just wants them to write.

I’ve been at this writing thing for nearly two years now, so instead of writing in private, I wanted to post 30 straight days of short essays on Facebook.

I’ll unpack more of what I learned later, but as I look back on the last month, I notice it was a lot more like a farm than a mountain.

Let me explain.

Oftentimes, we’re hoping for the huge mountaintop experiences. Promotions, babies, new houses, vacations. And those are awesome when/if they happen.

But day by day and month by month, life is predominantly mundane. More like a farm. At least it is for me.

Lots of days and lots of weeks stack up, pile on top of each other, normal rhythm after normal rhythm. Some great conversations and awesome moments sprinkled in for sure, but more mundane than mountaintop.

Lots of tilling the soil, working the ground, praying for rain.

The thing about mundane is that it doesn’t have to equate to boring. Lots would assume it does. I’d argue that the mundane is where the real magic and memories can be made. After all, the mundane is the predominant reality we’ll face day in and day out.

The farmer puts in work, gets up early, keeps tilling the ground. Whatever little patch of land he’s been entrusted with. Most times, my guess is, he doesn’t complain, doesn’t gripe, doesn’t compare. He just does the work and looks forward to the harvest. He doesn’t daydream about mountaintops and take his eye of the corn rows.

The mundane is where it’s messy, gritty and where real life happens. The small, un-instagrammable (made it up, yes) moments that don’t flood the like button.

I have a soft spot for anyone that serves or has served in the military. It might be that my Great Uncle Emmett, from whom my son and I got our middle name, is a Purple Heart recipient from World War II. It might be that my father and father-in-law both served our nation. It might be because we live in the heartland of the country, a place ripe with national pride.

Like most things, I’m sure it’s a mixed up combination of all of that and more.

So when I was asked to meet with a 70-year-old, United States Marine, Vietnam veteran for breakfast, I jumped at the opportunity.

You know that feeling when you’ve had four of five cups of coffee, been up longer than most people, already listened to your favorite music and then walk into a room full of people that are just getting going?

It’s like you’re going 100mph faster than everyone else. That’s what he did to me that morning.

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Thanks for swinging by, I appreciate it. Looking forward to connecting and continuing the conversation about how love can impact your business. Send an email to justin@justinricklefs.com with any questions or comments.